


panurgicity

by illicithiraeth



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 15:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illicithiraeth/pseuds/illicithiraeth
Summary: He really shouldn’t be surprised. When your response to a whole horde of bulked-up hockey players making blowjob gestures at you is to tell them to show you their dicks, this is what you get.





	panurgicity

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally going to be one scene of a 5 times fic about johnny self-destructively barebacking with strangers (and one time he doesn't) but i wrote this & then ran out of steam. i might still finish it one day, who knows. in the meantime though, i believe in sharing porn, so here you go. 
> 
> warning: unbeta'd filth. what i call "heavy dubcon", i.e. it's noncon but the pov character won't admit it. some violence.

Johnny can feel something is going to happen, the sweet tingles of expectation settling in his stomach before the locker room door even opens.

Maybe it’s the farmer in him; there’s something about storms, a change in the air you can taste on your tongue and feel in your bones. 

Or maybe it’s the steps, heavy and ungraceful, but just one elephant, not an entire herd. And maybe it’s that he always knows when he’s being watched, can feel the heat of a pair of eyes on his ass like a brand. 

The door opens with a clang, the handle hitting the tiled wall hard. 

“Hey faggot,” the guy sneers in heavily accented English. 

Out of all the hockey players slinging insults at him during their shared ice time, Johnny hadn’t expected this one to follow him. Though honestly, he should have; it’s always the quiet ones. His name is Maxim, Johnny thinks. They’ve never been formally introduced. 

Johnny swallows and widens his stance almost unconsciously; if they’re going to fight he can’t be off balance. His fingers clench in the fabric of the training shirt he’s just taken off, unsure whether it’d be better to drop it so he has his hands free, or not make any sudden movements. 

“Hey idiot,” Johnny replies in Russian. His voice is maybe half an octave higher than usual, but it’s unlikely Maxim can tell the difference. 

His eyes are a freezing ice blue, and he’s staring at Johnny unblinkingly. Then he starts taking his pants off. 

Johnny is frozen for a second, still uselessly holding his shirt, wondering what exactly is happening. This _is_ a locker room after all, he can’t jump to conclusions. 

Then the underpants come off, and Johnny finds himself faced with Maxim’s enormous cock. 

And Johnny doesn’t use that word lightly. Maxim’s only half hard, but even so, his size is impressive. 

He realizes he’s staring and snaps his eyes up, before he can wonder if eye contact is really the smartest choice here. 

“Suck it.” His voice is hard, impassive, and he takes one, two big steps forward, moving into Johnny’s space. Johnny has to tighten all his muscles to fight the instinct to inch backwards, to not get trapped between the locker and the beefy guy in front of him. 

He really shouldn’t be surprised. When your response to a whole horde of bulked-up hockey players making blowjob gestures at you is to tell them to show you their dicks, this is what you get. 

Maxim reaches out, and Johnny has maybe a split second to make a decision, thinks fast. 

It’s not like he doesn’t have options. He’s not big, and compared to the hunk of man before him he feels tiny and slight, but he has muscles, he’s strong, and the element of surprise is on his side; he can’t imagine Maxim is expecting him to put up much of a fight. 

The second option is screaming. 

He dismisses option two immediately, it’d be humiliating if someone came, even more so if no one did, and he’s not sure if he wants to find out which one it would be. 

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, pushing him down, not gently, but not with force either. 

And. You can’t lose if you don’t compete, can’t prove everyone right about you, how weak you are, how unprepared, if you don’t step onto the ice. Johnny can choose his own narrative here. What this means is entirely his decision. 

Johnny goes down. His knees hit the hard tile floor, and there’s something to be said about muscle memory, about positive reinforcement and conditioning, because as he looks up at Maxim, who’s got both hands on Johnny’s shoulders now, warm grounding weights pinning him in place, Johnny can feel his own dick hardening. 

He opens his mouth as wide as he can and leans forward. Maxim pulls him in by his shoulders at the same time as he thrusts forward, and Johnny loses all his breath when his huge hard cock is slammed down his throat. 

He gags, before he can catch himself, closing his eyes and trying to breathe evenly through his nose as he does his best to suck in his cheeks around all the saliva. It’s messy, and rough, Maxim grabbing his head in both hands and holding him as he thrusts in and out, but Johnny gets some suction going, presses his tongue against the underside of Maxim’s cock as hard as he can, working as best as he can with as much leverage as he has. 

He can hear Maxim breathing heavily above him, can smell the cold sweat on his skin, taste the salty promise of precome on his tongue, and Johnny can’t help himself, he moans lown in his throat when Maxim pulls his hair exceptionally harshly, doesn’t understand at first what’s happening when he pulls out all the way. 

“You filthy little slut,” Maxim says, and he’s still speaking English, it must be a power thing, Johnny thinks vaguely, must be really important Johnny understands every word he says. 

Johnny whines, mouth open and sticky-wet, swaying forward, trying to get his cock back in his mouth. 

Maxim grabs Johnny’s hair with one hand and jerks his head up. Johnny opens his eyes to look at him, blinking sluggishly. Maxim takes his cock in his other hand, holding Johnny steady, and rubs the glistening head all over his face, his forehead, nose, cheeks, his wet and swollen lips and gaping mouth, trailing precome. 

“Useless thing,” Maxim says gutturally. 

Johnny makes a pathetic noise, still straining forward almost without meaning too. He’s so hard, so wet in his unbearably tight training pants. 

When Maxim lets go Johnny almost loses his balance, he hadn’t realized how hard he was leaning against Maxim, how much of Johnny’s weight he’d been supporting. The loss of contact leaves him disoriented, he was expecting, no craving, a load of come on his face, and now he’s not sure what to do. 

Fortunately, the confusion doesn’t last long. 

“Up,” Maxim says, and Johnny scrambles to his feet unsteadily, equilibrium lost. 

“You want cock? You will get.” It’s not really a question but Johnny is nodding none the less, like gravity working, like one of those bobbing head dolls people put in their cars. 

Maxim grabs him by the shoulders and manhandles him face forward against the lockers, and for a split second the memory from earlier, of not wanting to get trapped there is bubbling up, and Johnny muffles a giggle against the cold metal.

He’s too lightheaded to help as Maxim pulls his pants and briefs down just far enough to expose his ass, and it leaves him practically bound at the thighs, bracing himself with both his hands against the cool locker doors as not to fall. 

Maxim puts one big warm hand in the middle of Johnny’s back and pushes him even closer to the locker, then slides it down, cups his ass, strokes down his thigh. 

“Soft skin like girl,” he says, and from a proclaimed straight guy that could be an attempt at a compliment, but his tone lets Johnny know it isn’t. 

He slides his hand in between Johnny’s legs and grabs his hard leaking dick, more confirming that it’s there than stroking it. Johnny still can’t help the moan that forces its way out of his throat, he’s not been touched at all yet today, hasn’t been touched in such a long time.

“Disgusting. Pathetic,” Maxim says, and wipes his hand off on Johnny’s back. 

Then his hands are back on Johnny’s ass, spreading his cheeks and Johnny realizes that _this is it_ and he braces himself mentally while trying to relax every muscle in his body. 

Johnny hadn’t expected fingers or lube, but he had expected a condom, that tiny bit of slick. Hadn’t expected to get fucked completely dry, hadn’t expected to get fucked at all, thought it would end with the blowjob. 

He finds he’s excited by it, adrenaline coursing through him and making him dizzy, realizes that he _wants_ it to hurt, wants to be pushed to his limit. It’s not an opportunity that presents itself very often, most guys even to squeamish to go bare, never mind this, and he’d never known how to ask.

Today turned out better than he’d thought possible. 

The head of Maxim’s cock, still wet with Johnny’s spit, rubs against his ass. Johnny realizes that Maxim has probably fucked hookers, just like this, in dark back alleys, anonymous and faceless with their head turned away, just like Johnny, available and disposable, and he shivers, whines low in his throat and pushes back. 

The breach is almost unbearable, dry and tight from months and months of living celibate as he is. At the same time, it’s almost unbearably good. It feels like the best kind of muscle ache, like making your body submit, like winning on an empty stomach and a twisted ankle.

His hands tremble as he scrambles for purchase on a flat surface, but Maxim grabs them, more perceptive than Johnny would have given him credit for and pulls Johnny’s arms behind his back and moves in closer, sandwiching Johnny’s body between his bulk and the locker front. 

There is nothing to do but lean forward into the locker as Maxim presses onwards, sinking into Johnny inch by inch, making his body take it. Johnny couldn’t move, couldn’t fight if he tried, legs tied by his own pants, arms pinned by Maxim, his cheek pressed against the vent slots hard enough there are going to be indents on his skin. 

He’s completely trapped, and glad for it. He couldn’t hold himself upright under his own power, in the onslaught, but he doesn’t have to. Nowhere to go, to run, nothing to feel but what he’s feeling. 

Johnny moans brokenly as he feels himself let go, something tightly wound deep inside him unspooling, and his body opens up all at once, asshole going loose and sloppy. 

Maxim groans, murmuring something Johnny can’t discern, maybe in in Russian, and picks up his pace, going fast and hard, rattling the lockers. Johnny’s moans turn into an unending whine, dick leaking where it’s trapped against the cold metal, smearing precome. 

Maxim fists a hand in Johnny’s hair and yanks his head back to mutter in his ear, low and threatening: “Next time I’ll bring whole team.”

Johnny shivers. From the corner of his eye he can see that the locker room door is open, has been open the whole time. Maxim must know and not care; if anyone walked by it’d be clear who’s got the power, who’s the man and who is just a set of holes to be used. 

He cries out on an especially brutal thrust, and Maxim slams his head forwards into the locker again, hard enough black spots appear in front of Johnny’s eyes. 

“Shut your mouth, whore,” he says, but Johnny can’t, he’s panting, drool leaking from his mouth. Maxim’s big warm hand closes around his throat, and Johnny whimpers quietly. He isn’t squeezing very hard, but Johnny’s still gasping for air. He’s lightheaded, it’s so much, he feels so full, so helpless and trapped. He tries not to fight it, make his body go limp, letting his eyes slip shut.

Johnny can tell when Maxim is about to come, his grip goes tight as a vice and Johnny can’t help it, he tenses, gurgling as he unsuccessfully attempts to draw breath.

Then there’s warm come spilling into his fucked open hole, and breathing seems less important suddenly, he couldn’t do it anyway as his whole body spasms as Johnny comes, sudden and violent, dick spurting against the locker front, against his own stomach. 

The hand around his throat withdraws, and for a moment, Johnny feels suspended in mid air, his whole body light as a feather, floating. Then he realizes that it’s because Maxim has withdrawn completely and there’s nothing keeping Johnny upright anymore. 

He thinks it would hurt more, normally, but Johnny is pleasantly numb as he crumples to the floor, feet giving out beneath him, light and dark spots still dancing before his eyes. He hears himself making a noise, but even that seems far away, and he can’t tell if it’s from pain or satisfaction. 

Time goes kind of wonky, gooey like honey. Johnny’s not sure how long it is until he’s nudged, none too gently, with a booted foot. He blinks his eyes open slowly, with great difficulty. He hadn’t realized he closed them. Maxim is looming over him, casting shadow, the bright locker room halogen lamp’s light like a halo around his head. Sometime between Johnny hitting the floor and getting roused again, Maxim has gotten redressed in street clothes, maybe also took a shower, his hair looks wet in the light. 

Maxim kicks him again, and Johnny groans, his throat hoarse and his brain sluggish. 

“Worthless,” Maxim says, dismissively, and spits. The glob of slime lands on Johnny’s brow, drips down into his eyes, making his vision go blurry.

Johnny doesn’t have the energy to form words, or else he’d made a snippy remark about one word statements and estimated IQ. It’s probably for the better he can’t, but Johnny’s curious what Maxim would do.

Johnny blinks against the saliva, has to close his burning eyes briefly. When he opens them again, Maxim has left. The door is still open, but the rink sounds quiet. 

Time distorts again as Johnny listens to the quiet, the dripping tap in the showers, miscellaneous creaking, a high pitched beeping noise that might be entirely Johnny’s imagination. The cool air makes goosebumps appear on his skin as he lies just where he fell, naked and unable to make himself move, as come drips out of his stretched out hole.

It’s a long time before he manages to pick himself up from the floor and drag his heavy body into the showers.

**Author's Note:**

> on twitter as @illicithiraeth


End file.
